Jesus Christ, Shaman King
by NeoKon
Summary: Based on that moment in volume 3 or 4 where somebody says all the great saviors were shaman kings. The life of Jesus in the Shaman King world. Also, very Bible-conspiracy. You have been warned.
1. STAR & The House of Bread 1

Jesus Christ, Shaman King

Jesus Christ, Shaman King

1

The desert winds swept the dunes. Here and there patches of grass grew, or trees; but the winds were the same winds as in the barest stretches of desert, and showed no mercy for the brave emissaries of life. Three men trekked across the hills and fields and rock and sand, towards a ring of low hills on which burned one or two telltale lights and torches; but the lights they followed were not the humble candles lit by shepherds on the hilltops to keep light. Their eyes were fixed on the peak of the dome of sky, where the light of a bright star was growing steadily brighter.

The men were shamans. Indeed, they were shamans of the highest repute; they rose above the priests of the established religions of their homelands in power and knowledge, advised kings. Their knowledge came from the stars. The stars were their guides, and they knew the path and portent of every planet and aster well. The five-pointed star, the pentagram, was their symbol, worn on their turbans and carried on banners by their servants; and they knew the meaning of the symbol well.

One was young, one was middle-aged and the one who led the caravan was ancient, wizened as a rock face. He sat silent as one as well, so still one could think he was sitting dead on his patient camel's back. But a light glowed in his eyes as he gazed at the star in the distance that was more than the star's reflected light; a light that was alive, alive with a dream still burning as bright as if he were young.

Balthazar looked up towards the other two. "Not far beyond those hills lies the town we seek." He turned his head downward and spoke to the silent camel. "Soon you may rest." The camel snorted.

"At last!" shouted Gaspar. "I feared we would not make it in time for the Holy Night of Horus, but we are finally approaching."

"I can see the star brighter in the sky, as if it were closer, as if it were so close that distances as small in the grand picture as those we covered could make a difference."

"Or does it just glow brighter for the Holy Night now that it draws nigh?" suggested Gaspar. But Melchior did not answer. He looked up at the star silently, staring at it with a relaxed intentness as the camels watched forever in front of them, their eyes drawn as by a trailing string to their as-yet-unseen destination. He seemed asleep, dreaming good dreams, with his eyes open and shining with flickering gold-and-blue starlight. The star they pursued flickered so as it seemed to actually have five points like the star upon their banner; as if the ancient symbol all shamans had known for centuries had been based on a viewer's drawing of this star they were just seeing today; though sometimes the five points seemed to become six, like another sacred star the shamans knew well, the symbol of the union of male and female triangles, the star of David or Solomon. He watched this star, breathing deeply, as if in meditation. He whispered; "On the holy night of birth, when I reach this holy star's light, and see the birth it heralds, I can finally rest."

Whether or not the others heard it out loud, the other two shamans all knew what he was thinking.

The man at the watchtower on Herod's outpost did not notice the star. He was not an open-minded sort, and not inclined to notice much of anything due to his inclination to think he had seen it all before. Travellers, he certainly noticed them; he was, without mistake, a great watchman; but he only noticed things when it was his job to notice them. When he could be bothered to, he was a genius of noticing things. He could spot a camel's footprints by the time most people could barely spot the camel. But he did not do it as a matter of course; only for his weekly pay. It was a job he did not enjoy, he only did it for the money, because it bored him; but so did everything, so much he had noticed and the more he noticed the more convinced he was that by now there was nothing new under the sun or the midwinter moon.

It also didn't help that the star was somewhat behind and above him, and his job was to look forwards, not backwards into the courtyard he was guarding. Looking forwards, the only stars he noticed that were out of the ordinary were an array of five-pointed stars on flags, far in the distance. They hung low over a caravan of men and camels on whose backs sat men hidden under fine Persian canopies. A rich caravan; susceptible to be looted for most of their gold by the toll-taker, he thought. Nothing new; except the star flag, which he had never seen before.

He called down to the guardsmen and the toll-takers: "Keep on your guard, men, a rich caravan approaches from out of the desert. They travel as if they wish to pass us, but they will not pass us."

The small fortress stood over a little town ringed by hills, the town of Bethlehem. It was a small place, something of a commercial hub for the rural shepherds for miles around, that had attracted enough money and attention to have grown its own upper-class district out of a few Roman ambassadors and provincial supervisors and the wealthier set of lucky wool-merchants. The town was remarkable particularly as a place of beginnings. Thousands were born in the little town of Bethlehem, and most moved away. However, that fact made it one of the most crowded cities in Israel now, for the Romans had decided they had nothing better to do than to take a census, forcing rich and poor to move back to the town they were born in – in the case of many, Bethlehem.

The rich men approaching, however, did not seem the type to have been born in Bethlehem. Rich and poor, Roman and Jew, were all born in the town, but these men were neither Romans or Jews, he saw as they came closer; they were foreign; Arabian? Persian? Indian? African? All of those? He could not tell; and the star banners were bizarre and somewhat unsettling. He had not heard of any nation ever flying such a flag. They were making as if to pass the watch-fort by entirely. They did not even seem to notice it. Their path was fixed in an unnaturally straight line. They did not join the road where the desert ended, but continued over the fields as if drawn by a magnetic force. What was drawing them so? What was the single object of their focus? His eyes followed the line they took across the frosty night-meadows, worn ragged from sheep-grazing, and it led past the hills into Bethlehem; but even looking behind him into the brightly lit town he did not notice the star.

The star was not an entirely normal star. It was not even intended to be noticed by everyone, after all. Only those whose minds were open could realize it was there, because it was not a physical object in the sky.

And he didn't particularly care about what was in the sky over Bethlehem. He had seen Bethlehem and the sky over it a thousand times before. It was not that he was interested in. He thought, all of a sudden, that the men might be smugglers. Organized criminals often had eccentric signs like the star, links to faraway countries and great riches if they were successful. They certainly weren't coming for the census.

He shouted down to the guards: "There's a caravan in the distance, going off-road! They're trying to get past us and go straight into Bethlehem! I'm going to sound the horn! Go fetch men in case they stay their course!" Whenever someone was off-road they sounded the horn to let them know that they had to pass the fort. These men would be no exception to the rule – he had seen this happen often enough – unless they ignored the horn. Doing so was breaking the law of the Romans. No-one but the exceptionally desperate and particularly fearless – or reckless – smugglers and convicts did this. In that case soldiers would be sent out to meet them – with swords drawn.

The watchman reached for the horn that hung from the inside of his watchtower. It was a richly made, new horn with laurel leafs around the rim – a pompous design more fit for a king's parade than for signaling travelers to a toll-booth, and not original either. He didn't like it – but it had powerful sound, and that counted. It was new and made by a craftsman from Rome and would not have to be replaced for a long time. He raised it and breathed in deeply – not inexpertly sucking air into his cheeks but filling his chest and lungs to the brim, so that his cheeks barely seemed to inflate. He held his breath as he put it to his lips and let it all out. The sound was hollow and dry, but strong and carried far, crossing the fields, rocks and desert like a racing wind.

Melchior, the old man, was resting on his camel's back in a position of meditation from the far east, eyes closed. The light of the star danced on the curtain of his eyelids, flickering through the perfect darkness. By this focus he made out direction from in the lead, even with his eyes closed in meditation – even better and straighter than with his eyes open. He blocked out every sense except his instincts and the patterns of flickering starlight. But he could not hear the horn, and kept going despite it. His intuition felt the Earth around him and was at one with all life nearby, even the smallest bug, but ignored the alien, purposeless presences of the road and the fort.

Gaspar's and Balthazar's eyes and ears were open. Gaspar, the youngest of the shamans, laughed at the sound of the horn. At first they kept going; but Balthazar seemed to understand the urgence of the sound. He tapped Melchior on the shoulder, who quickly snapped out of his trance. "What is it?" the old man asked.

"A horn blew from the Roman outpost. They wish us to come by the road and pay the toll. It is the law of these parts. For us to become criminals in the Roman empire would be bad for men of our status, no matter how inefficient the road is."

"Efficient or not, I like neither roads nor Romans," grumbled Gaspar.

"Gaspar, you do not yet have the political significance to your nation that we have. But for us, however we dislike roads or Romans, we must still follow these laws if we are to retain our positions, the positions that allow shamans like us to be honoured and not persecuted as you were before. Is it not your dream to become a great onmyouji like us? You have the most potential of us all so it would be best for you to tread carefully in foreign parts. When we are in Rome, we must be orderly as Romans."

Gaspar grunted his reluctant agreement and turned his camel.

The guards on horseback had already been sent out by the time the shamans changed direction sluggishly toward the fort. They halted their horses in mid-acceleration, grinding the dirt under their hooves into a small, quiet explosion of dust on the dry and chilly air. The lead soldier turned back to the watchmen on the walls. "They've turned towards us!"

"Well, I can see, and you don't have to ask me for permission! Turn around already!" The watchman smacked his forehead with the hand that wasn't holding the horn. He had to have the strangest of people, possibly criminals, coming his way tonight. He was hoping to have some rest since the tide of newcomers to Bethlehem had mostly stopped. The census was almost at hand and the stragglers were few; no-one had passed the fort since a wretched poor couple, a carpenter and his wife, some hours ago. Who were these bizarre men who traveled like kings but seemed as if they were lost or blind, and waved unknown flags at all who passed them?

Well, he would find out soon enough. They were coming, and would certainly be interrogated fully by the guards. These travelers were no doubt suspicious. In fact, he decided that nothing would satisfy his strange, disgruntled curiosity except that if he interrogated them himself. He was Chief Watchman, and probably the most high-ranking person out tonight. He turned away from the watchtower and started to descend the wooden stairs in the back of the post. He passed a lesser watchman napping at the bottom.

"Wake up, fool!" He slapped the man twice hard across the face. The man woke bewildered, but when he looked into the face of his superior he understood. "I don't get an hour's sleep in the night when I _am _allowed and you feel like you can doze off any time you want when I when you _aren't _allowed. It's disrespectful. Look, I'm going down to question a caravan of very suspicious travelers. You take my post and don't go back down until I say so." He stormed off.

He stood with the guards at the gate and watched the caravan come fully into view. The sign on the flags was now completely clear; a five-pointed star of crossing lines. The caravan itself was a hodgepodge assortment of different cultures; the decoration of the tents that it carried and of the carpets on the camels' backs was Persian, Ethiopian, Arabian, Indian and some designs and influences he had never seen anywhere before, not in the peddlers' mock-foreign stalls or books of strange cultures of other lands, recounted by travelers who had probably drank too much wine.

They approached slowly; almost painfully slowly, like a mirage. They did not call out to him.

He grew frustrated quickly and called out himself. "Who are you?! You almost got yourselves arrested, and you're under heavy suspicion of being lawbreakers!"

The men who were drawing near the gate were silent.

He could see them now – the men themselves. There were numerous servants and attendants, all in simple, monastic clothing, light sandals from the far east that did not seem the best-designed for long desert voyages. Their simple robes had the same sign on them as on the flags, and they wore hooded brown capes of some rough, coarse cloth. The three men on camels were easy to identify as the leaders. The youngest had a shaved head and wore a saffron robe; he carried a staff and sat in a meditative position. The star symbol was painted upon his forehead in red ochre. The middle-aged one had an air of royal dignity; he was clad in loose-fitting, baggy white robes and had a tall, straight black brimless hat. His face was as still and solid as stone and his eyes were closed, like the others, though unlike them he held his head high. He too had a star painted on his forehead, in blue ochre. The leader was an ancient man with wild white hair like a lion's mane, in simple clothes with a red five-pointed star on the front. He carried two heavy scrolls on his back and two smaller scrolls in each hand. His eyes were closed, his face serene, and the star on his forehead was gold.

"Answer! You're only deepening the empire's suspicion of you! We could just arrest you here and now!"

The middle-aged one answered. "We are the onmyouji. We are sages of the east. We follow a star."

At that point they drew up to the gate and stopped. "What do you mean you follow a star? Everyone follows stars for navigation. Where are you following the stars and why?"

"Not the stars; a star. We follow it to wherever it leads us. It has great astrological significance that you cannot comprehend. We mean no harm to any. But we must see what it heralds."

"You think you're better than us because you're rich and foreign and barmy?!" The watchman was really angry now. "I have an astrologer of my own – I'm wealthy enough, I'll have you know, to be able to consult one of the best regularly. There's no great star hanging over Bethlehem. I can tell you're smugglers." The leader was getting down off his camel now. "Men, arrest these village charlatans!"

"Roman, I can see that the only charlatans must be your astrologers." He extended two fingers and touched the watchman in the centre of the forehead, where he had his star tattoo. The guards moved slowly to surround and arrest the wise men. The attendants, unarmed, took eastern combat poses; the guards closed in but did not yet move. "Now turn around and look to the sky."

The watchman turned around and stared into the sky above Bethlehem. An impossible light blasted at his senses. He thought at first that the sun had come up. But it was not the sun. The sky around it was night. But it was far brighter than the sun, a brilliant pulsating crackling orb of pale gold and blue like lightning; five points flickered from its fiery surface. _This… can't be real._

The light enveloped and smothered all his senses, and it became the still, warm darkness of unconsciousness.

Slowly, the last guard hit the ground, fast asleep. Their weapons were scattered around the gate by a force that was not of this world. Over them stood the three shamans; and hovering above them, the glowing, flickering forms of their three Over Souls. Melchior remounted, and the caravan moved on.

2

Inside the fort, a man was relaxing on a long Roman chair out in the courtyard. No wind penetrated the fort, so the bare trees were still as stone. Even the grass slept. It was somewhat warmer than outside, given the torches and the absence of cold north winds; but still, it was not normal that one would spend so much time out in the courtyard in midwinter, even here in Judaea where winters were very mild. There were better things to do within walls. But the man in the chair disagreed. He thought this was the perfect time to be out, looking at the stars…

Then he felt something; the unique eerie warmth spreading, vibrating like ripples in the air of powerful mana. He felt it in every sense. The strong aura was emanating from beyond the gate. He had not felt this in a long time. But it was not so unexpected now. The time of his purpose was drawing near. He guessed he would not be the only shaman involved.

Of course other shamans would appear, he thought, looking one last time back at the brilliant star before getting off his chair and heading to the gate.

The three shamans turned from the gate. They were on the road now, so they might as well follow the road to Bethlehem. Their camels didn't like it; neither did their ghosts. The stones beneath their feet were perfectly carved, mortared together, and they were not even stones that belonged in this region; they were torn from the bones of the Earth in a quarry far away from Bethlehem and dug into the soft sand like a disease.

As the camels began to trot, unnerved by the clicking of their hooves on this strange stone, the wise men began to disengage their over souls. But then Melchior stopped them.

"Don't disengage yet. Someone's coming."

"_I feel a man… and I feel a ghost,"_ his spirit ally spoke from within the fusion of spirit and matter.

The over soul, the supreme weapon of a shaman, was created by fusing a ghost with the shaman's own mana or spiritual power, using a material object as a focus. Each mage had a long metal staff with a pointed tip and two rings; a sacred object used by priests or hermits far in the East.

At that moment a sharp whistling sliced the air like a knife; most would have covered their ears. The shamans, instead, readied their weapons. Over the walltop came three small meteors, crackling and hissing as if the air was acid, trailing thin sharp tails of acrid smoke-stench, like the brimstone of hell; breaking up into smaller meteors as they hurtled towards the humans who were obviously their targets. The attendants took their defensive positions without the slightest fear for their lives, but Balthazar stepped in front of them, motioning for them to retreat. Just as they slammed into the caravan the middle-aged onmyouji calmly whirled his staff, which glowed with a neon starlight aura that pulsed like ripples on a pond of lightning. The motion traced a brilliant ring in the air, in which for a moment the five-pointed star insignia of the caravan seemed to appear, before the centre exploded with the meteoric impact – but the explosion rapidly changed to steam, bursting in spirals hissing and coiling like a shimmering snake pierced by flying sparks. The cloud cleared, floating away on the wind, revealing an Over Soul glowing with the clear, rippling blue of water.

"A shaman. Here?!" Gaspar was shocked.

"Yes, I wouldn't imagine one at a mere Roman border fort like this, in such an insignificant district;" Balthazar nodded solemnly.

"I can't get over the fact that Romans even have shamans!"; and Gaspar sounded like it too.

"Who are you," Balthazar called out over the wall, "and why do you stop us?"

There was no answer but a sudden flapping noise like cloth in the wind. They looked up and saw on top of the guard turret, standing on the shoddily made wooden roof which should have broken under any human's weight, a dark figure in long robes of Roman design and an Egyptian cowl. Gaspar leapt into the air. "Who are you?" His Over Soul arced through the sky like a reversed comet; it was burning with a wild and roaring flame but his hand was not so much as singed.

He leapt higher than the human capacity to leap should have been, all the way up to the top of the tower; but the mysterious shaman stood his ground well. He twirled a pendant in his hand; it whistled in the night in harmony with the wind in the courtyard trees behind the wall. Gaspar's Over Soul struck, but did not strike; it did not make contact with flesh, but with a wall of fire from the spinning ghostly pendant, making an explosion like a meteor's impact where it was blocked by the other Over Soul. This explosion propelled him backwards in the air, off the tower; the attendants moved into a formation to catch him when he fell.

But they did not need to catch him. Gaspar swung his Over Soul forward; ghostly arms reached out of the flame and grabbed the edge of the guard turret, and with incomparable strength pulled him in. The shaman swung his foot forward as soon as it was in range, stepping onto the stone edge and leaning forward, rolling into the watchman's post. The mysterious shaman was now standing above him, on the 'roof'. Gaspar struck with his Over Soul; the two ghostly hands, tightened into fists, moving in concert with the fiery tip of the staff. The fists blew two holes in the wooden canopy as it exploded into flames.

The attacker leapt off as the roof exploded; the hem of his heavy, ragged robes burst into flame. He put the pendant around his neck as he rolled in the air, the flames around his feet smoking and making a ring of flame as he spun. The image of a shining golden eagle-ghost with sharp starlike eyes superimposed itself over him as suddenly, his entire body burst into flame, and his rotation and descent speeded up incredibly. He had turned himself into a living meteor. Gaspar had no time to react as the man hovered briefly in the air, spinning with ever-increasing momentum, then fell like a bomb and blew the ground apart.

The fragments of broken ground fell, clattered, settled; the rumbling ceased. The dust and the air swirled, but quickly lost the energy to conceal the outcome of the explosion.

The meteor-shaman was curled up, suspended in the air; he was held still by two huge hands, bony but wiry-muscled, three-fingered, clawed and reptilian hands with shining golden scales. The hands of a dragon. The magnificent serpent, larger than any animal that a normal human had ever seen, mane seeming to brush the moon and antlers cradling it, glowed with mana; it coiled around Melchior and deep within it one could just barely make out the hermit's staff. Balthazar's staff, crackling with electricity, was at the assailant's throat. Their enemy's clothes still smoldered.

He smirked. "If shamans this strong are coming, there must be something really great about this star."

"Who are you?"

"Who are you?"

"We're the ones in a position to be asking questions," Balthazar pointed out.

"I have great influence in Judaea. The moment you leave me here I will order troops to sack Bethlehem if you do not tell me what you are seeking there. If you take me with you, you will instantly become hunted men."

"Very well, we must both answer questions then. First, who are you?"

"I am Andronicus, one of Herod's three astrologers."

"Stronger than I expected."

"Herod found the best three in the empire. He is a king with a great appreciation of the supernatural world. He realizes its significance – even its effect on his rule."

"Are you, by any chance, the astrologer the watchman referred to?" asked Gaspar curiously.

"Yes."

"But you know about the star."

"No need to reveal shamanic secrets to the lay people. That would be to throw pearls before swine. Now, what is the star? What is its significance? It seems that you know. Neither Herod nor any of his three astrologers can uncover its secret."

"How could you not recognize it? You seem to be a powerful shaman, and if you are an astrologer that would mean you specialize in predicting the future by the stars."

"But this is no Earthly star. I have searched every book in the greatest library in Judaea for records of such an occurrence and records of what came after in history – never has such an event been seen before. Never has it been predicted. And no astrologer has deemed to write of the significance of a star that has never been seen."

"Only a Roman would be so learned in kerygma and so foolish in dogma. Are you sure it has never been seen, ever in human history?"

"Yes; I know every record of human history by heart. I am the historian-astrologer Andronicus."

"Then unriddle me this riddle, you who are so learned: what is the meaning of the name Bethlehem?"

"Simple: The House of Bread."

"What does this name represent in the lore of astrology?"

"The constellation Virgo, the virgin."

"What rises above the House of Bread on the 25th day of December – Horus Eve – every year?"

"The coinciding stars of Sirius the Dog and the belt of Orion (also called Osiris), all the brightest stars in the sky; becoming one aster that is only visible for one day in the year."

"So how can you say that it is new for a brilliant new star to rise above Beth-lehem, that is, the House of Bread?"

"You are truly wiser than I. So this is a portent of…"

"In the sky, it comes before the rising of the sun on December 25th, that is to say the virgin birth of the oak-king. December 24th among the shamans of Egypt is Horus Eve. So in the world…"

"We shall see a king, a god or a sacrifice; or all three."

"All right. That is all I need to know. King Herod shall like to come and… worship this noble child when he is born. I shall be sure to tell him of the nature of this glorious event."

"We may leave now?"

"Of course you may leave now. Understanding the magnitude of this portent, it would be a tragedy if any great shaman should be kept from witnessing the rise of the winter sun."

"Would you come with us?"

"No; at least, not for now. I must prepare a message for the great king Herod. You three be off; you have no need to stay here with me."

So they left, leaving the astrologer to his own devices. He went up to the watchtower as the onmyouji and their caravan departed. As soon as he stood on the hard stone floor high in the air, surrounded by its four walls and the four smoldering and charred posts that had held up the 'roof', he turned away, towards the inside of the castle. On his shoulder perched a translucent form, shifting and shimmering like mist and glowing with a light like a dying fire. It was a ghostly eagle, hard-eyed and with a beak like a sword. It was his spirit ally.

He took out a parchment from one of the pockets of his robe, and a feather pen, dipping it in a bottle of ink he also found, he began to write. He wrote down the wise men's explanation of the new star that had appeared in the sky. At the bottom he signed his name.

Then he pulled his pendant back out and held it up in front of the eagle. The eagle flew towards it; he held up his other hand near it, which was glowing with a pulsating orange aura of power. The power and the ghost both went into the pendant; the meteoric stone that hung from the chain burst into the hissing flame of a shooting star descending through the atmosphere and burning from the friction of the air.

Andronicus tied the parchment to his newly ignited over soul – it did not burn. He then whirled the pendant around, faster and faster and faster, it orbited his hand like a wild and out-of-control space object – and then a meteor hurtled out of it, the parchment attached to it, burning with a fire of spirit that he controlled so it did not damage the letter. The fire around the shooting star spread into the ragged wings of the eagle-spirit. It flew out of sight in a matter of seconds, arcing over the shape of the rounded Earth.

"Fly, my eagle," Andronicus smiled. "Fly to Herod the king, and bring him his news before the night is done."

_Herod will not be pleased, _he thought. _But Herod does not slay the messenger. I will most likely get promoted for preventing such a catastrophe from befalling his great kingdom. And then Herod will come to the House of Bread. But he shall not come to worship – he shall come to kill._


	2. The House of Bread 2

3

3

It was 9:00.

One of the few among those in the House of Bread who saw the Dog Star that had aligned itself with them was at the moment in far too much pain and stress to so much as think of it. Every now and then she would look up at it and it would give her comfort, warmth spreading down through the winter air from it as though it were a fire nearby; though her mind, still dark and full of fear, worried that it was an ill portent, or a fireball sent by Yahweh to crash into the Earth and destroy them all for their sins. She did not speak of it. She ignored it when it had fully aligned itself, as it waited for the call of its destiny patiently and stiller than even the other stars. She had to come back down to Earth; she could not rely on comfort from a stone-still sign of the apocalypse.

The man she traveled with, her husband, was in the same situation in regard to the world below and the skies above. He too could see it, and he too had more important things to think about. Not for himself, but for his wife.

Mary or Miriam the daughter of Joachim was pregnant. And just as her condition had reached its final stage she and her husband had been sent to Bethlehem because of the census. They had been put on the road, and since she was pregnant they had been the slowest in reaching the town – so by the time they got there on Horus Eve, December 24th, they had no place in town to stay.

As I have said, the House of Bread was a house of birth. Because of this when it came time for a census, there were too few houses and inns for too many people. Already they saw several sleeping on the streets, staying close to inns to keep near the heat, building their own fire or even in some extreme cases sleeping among the stray dogs in cold abandoned farm fields. Mary and Joseph were as poor as many of these men and women; they could have stood to sleep one night on the streets, even such a cold winter night, huddled up together in a hidden, overlooked place and sharing each other's warmth, were it not so evident that Mary was going to give birth to a child tonight.

Joseph turned and fumed, uttering curses under his breath, as another window of warmth slammed shut, and he was turned down from another inn, which was once again full. This was one of the less pretentious inns, but there were as many poor returning to Bethlehem as there were rich, and the poor were in an even greater hurry to arrive first as they could not merely buy their way in.

"MY WIFE'S PREGNANT!" he yelled.

"You've said it before, I said we're full. What am I, a genie to make room appear out of thin air?"

"If we were rich you'd let us in!!"

"Why don't you have money then? If you care so much about her you could go out and do some work to pay for the treatment you think you deserve. I shouldn't have to make your sacrifice. I, unlike you, have a business to run."

"I have a business and I had to leave it thanks to this bloody census. You seem to be running your business just fine. You're packing several people in each room, don't act as if your inn is at financial risk," Joseph growled.

"How would you know that?"

"I can plainly see through the windows."

"What are you, a spy? People can see out the windows too and you're causing a fuss. It's embarrassing for my business. Be off now. I'm locking the door."

The innkeeper swung the door closed as Joseph started to yell something. By the time he finished the first word it was locked and the innkeeper was probably far inside attending to some business.

"This one too. There's half the town left to search, at least."

"We may not even have time for…"

"Yahweh! Woman, our situation is dire enough! Look, some inn is going to have room. The city can't be this crowded _and _this greedy."

Of course, it could. Joseph knew that. But it was hard to believe, and Joseph wasn't good at believing things like that. That gift was the only thing that kept them going. Had he not been who he was, this story could not be told.

They kept going, this time not bothering at inns that looked too high-class and expensive; the kinds that were the least likely to let them in. There were no free houses for the poor or hungry or desperate; Bethlehem in 1 AD was not that sort of place. It was extremely capitalist. The conquering Romans liked it this way. People concentrating on advancing in life, on 'winning', could not band together with their rivals and start to think of driving the occupying forces out, which were stretched thin with new parts of the Empire being added every day and in some places occupied with an increasing number of barbarian stirrings.

As the star made its way over the town so did they; the star always hovering right over their heads, although they did not quite notice, and neither did anyone else. In fact, very few saw the star at all.

If the Romans had not picked such a time for a census, we would not be in such a mess, thought Joseph resentfully. Every man, woman and child had to return to the home town of the head of the family. The normally jovial, easygoing welcome of the inns became calculating and selective to avoid being overwhelmed by the crowd; and the humble search for hospitality became a vicious survival of the fittest. Joseph, Mary, and the unborn child in Mary's womb were at the low end of the ladder, it seemed.

Mary was in too much pain to feel any resentment. She felt worry, but her thoughts were broken up; occasionally she looked up at the star for relief, and found less and less.

It was 10:00.

They traveled all the way across the city and found a poor-looking inn; it was a small, squatting building with the loud noises of many people inside. It was not the sort of place that would be the best for them, but it would be better than outdoors. Money would not be a barrier to enter in this place. Joseph spotted a coolly lit attic window, that looked calmer than the rest of the place. It had no advertisement for its beer or its soft beds; it looked to be a mere hostelry. Perhaps they would let them stay for free; Joseph was willing, however, to pay all the little money he had out of sheer gratitude.

There were few people in the street now; Joseph let Mary sit down to the side of the street while he went up and knocked on the door. Mary hugged her knees, watched, waited.

Joseph waited at the door for quite some time, but no-one came to the door.

He knocked, and waited. The sounds of rowdiness and the sounds of poverty quieted, and there where some particularly ambiguous footsteps and shufflings, and a few ambiguous shouts, as the other sounds slowly and subtly resumed. Shadows shifted in the dim light cast from under the door (which was slightly broken, at an angle and off a hinge).

He knocked again. Mary called: "What's happening?"

"You know," he called back, "I really have no idea."

Someone shouted something behind the door, and Joseph thought it might have been directed at him; he as the invisible shadow cast from under the lopsided door, the disembodied knockings. But why, why didn't anyone come to the door?

"Hello?" he called back inside.

This time someone ran to the door. A shadow grew from underneath it. For the first time it completely blotted out the telltale sprawl of random light; and then the door swung outwards. Joseph leapt back as it swung right into his face, stumbling off the wooden doorstep and looked up. Finally a man stood before him in an open doorway.

"I'm sorry, we're full."

Joseph could not believe his ears, and knew far too well that he should have been able to. They were more often repelled from inns because they were full than because they could not pay. An inn couldn't just cast people out who had paid to get in, even if someone who needed shelter more came.

Before Joseph had to think of a reply the man spoke again. "There is another hostel for the poor on Market Street. I don't think it'll be as full; it's smaller and doesn't have food; it doesn't even have a sign, I'm pretty sure, which would be why everyone overlooks it. But it's a peaceful place and you can sleep well there."

Joseph thanked him even as he casually and briskly slammed the door.

Looking out his window, another man saw the star.

He was probably the only other in the city. But then again, perhaps not. There were many more who could have seen it but were, of course, just too busy to notice.

It was like that all over the world. Most of the types who noticed it were shepherds out in their fields, people with simple lives that didn't distract themselves from things like the sky on a winter's night. In the city, the only who noticed it were those who did so by chance – such as Joseph, Mary, and this man (though in their cases, perhaps it was not chance so much as destiny; but was there destiny? The Patch in the Americas said that not even the great spirit could predict the future; but was there no destiny on a night whose very nature matched the constant patterns of the stars?) – and of course, the astrologers. And thus the astrologers – Herod's triad, and royal advisors of kingdoms across the world – made themselves out to be something quite exceptional, while those with the gift were much more common than they could allow the kings who hung on their every baffled word to believe.

He had watched it through his window, studying its course like one of those astrologers. It had flown through the sky, skipping across constellations and the moon; it had first appeared far off on the edge of the horizon making its way to the House of Bread on the day of midwinter, along the same invisible, astrological road in the desert by which the onmyouji had come; though this man knew nothing of the onmyouji. It may yet have still been in the sky somewhere else around the curve of the Earth before. 22, 23, 24. The three days of December it had been visible from Bethlehem; the three nights. It drew in quickly, he thought, for it to take so long; but every evening he saw it in the same point it had disappeared in the morning, as if it slept by day; as if it were a mirage of the darkness.

Stargazing had been his hobby since he had seen so abnormal a star. He was an innkeeper, himself. Few came to his inn, though tonight there were many and it was full. But that also meant he had a lot of work to do and little time to go to his window and watch the star. And tonight was the third night. Three was a magical number. He could tell by intuition that for three days the star would light the night, as for three days Jonah had been in the belly of the whale. And this holy third night landed on Horus Eve.

I introduce this man because of what he was to do, which was because of what he discovered. He discovered that the star was still moving – in ways that no astrology could account for, no geometry of the heavens or cycles of time. It was moving like a person, like one of the people wandering the streets without a home.

Looking at the wandering of people down on the street and then up at the wandering of the star, he recognized a symmetry more perfect than any symmetry of magic star and Sirius or of Bethlehem and the House of Bread. A far more humble symmetry, that no astrologer would have realized, wrapped up as they were in the grand cycles of things, blinded by the light of too many heavenly bodies by night.

In a sudden flash of what in an animal would be called instinct, but in a human had no name other than calling or destiny, he left his inn, leaving customers waiting at the door – setting off into the town of Bethlehem to discover who the star was following.

It was 11:00.

Mary was not sure if she could make it.

Joseph was cursing himself every second for having overlooked the inn in search of something better. And so Mary weighed down had to lead the way, Joseph weighed down far more with guilt. Mary had to supply the precious hope, which was not strong in her; and the more of it she gave away to Joseph the less there was in herself; and he only absorbed it like a void, like it was being dropped down a hole with no bottom.

"God, Yahweh, Jehovah, I will accept your damnation, there is no longer anything I could do in my life to atone for causing my own wife such pain," he mumbled. He was pretty sure she wouldn't hear him through her pain and through the mess of voices and footsteps in the street, except there was no longer any mess of voices or footsteps in the street, but Joseph did not know, he thought the silence around him was only a punishment so his thoughts, the curses and damnations he imagined himself hearing from the lord above, could echo; so Mary's pain could echo and be pounded into him, so he would understand what he had done.

But Mary heard, even through her pain, and told him, "Joseph, while you are speaking to our lord above, do not cast yourself down, but pray. Pray for my child."

"You pray, for your soul is pure; but he will not hear my prayers as he would not hear the prayers of a soul already in hell."

"Your only hell is of your own making, not the Lord's. What harm will it do to pray?"

"You're… you're right. What will be worth more than to pray, though, will be to move. I am sorry that we stopped. Can you keep going?"

"No…" whimpered Mary, and he had not noticed the weakness and pain in her voice before – not at this level, not approaching this level. How could he not have noticed it? Had he been that self-centred? Or had it only now, suddenly set on? "No, I can't go on."

She dropped to her knees, and Joseph dropped to his knees beside her. None of the few still in the streets around them gave either a second glance; except a robber, sensing weakness like a shark sensing blood in the water, but nevertheless ignoring them. "Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. Please send aid. Please send someone." Joseph slid from using the Lord's name in shock to a prayer, so smoothly that no divine entity could have sensed the transition; ending in "don't let this be the end. Don't let it happen here. Not in the street. And don't let her die. Amen." He started to begin again.

"No," said Mary. "Don't talk about it. Not now."

"But didn't you just tell me to pray?" he burst out.

"Do not speak of what would happen if the Lord doesn't give us his blessing. Just pray for safety." She began to pray herself, and having no better ideas, he followed her words; but she could not speak clearly, and there were long pauses where it pained her to speak at all. So Joseph took over, and could not tell whether or not she followed.

It was only because of the star that the shadow could be cast; but the star's favour in foreshadowing what was to come was of no use, for they neither of them noticed as a shadow fell over both of them; a human shadow, cast by the strange gold flickering light. Neither had they noticed how the footsteps had approached them; how the sound had not started to die away as if someone was evading them, as it always did; every passerby staying away from their grief, afraid of the suffering they could not do anything to help – or could they?

The innkeeper had found the people the star had been following.

He had stayed back for a while. The first thing he had noticed was that at least one of them was in great pain; but he could not tell from what or why. He tried to determine it from a distance, but realized he could not; he was not sure whether or not to approach further. Finally he decided too. As he approached he saw the bulge of the young woman's belly and the heaving of her body; he realized what was she was going through.

And he realized he could do something about this.

Could he?

He was speaking before he could answer the half-question he had asked himself.

"Strangers, I can give you shelter. Please come with me."

They looked up at him. Their prayers had been answered! "Thank you. Thank you!" Joseph smiled, and Mary smiled through her pain. Joseph lifted her up but she was already getting back up onto her feel almost on her own; the stranger was helping them too.

"Where?"

"I have an inn just down the street." But the question echoed in the man's head after he had replied instinctively; where? The inn, he remembered, was full. It was that which had given him the opportunity to go out and search; there were no more visitors to show to their rooms.

But as they walked down the street, they were suddenly aware that the star was no longer directly over them; and the innkeeper saw that it had shown him his answer.


	3. NOWELL

4

4

Three shepherds saw the star that night. They saw the way their sheep had been staring up at something like wolves at the moon, and followed the animals' eyes, and suddenly realized that it was there, that it had been there all along, even though before it had been as if there was a blankness in that part of the sky or at least their memory of it. Though artists may depict shepherds gazing up at a starry sky (dominated of course by an eight-pointed figure of gold-leaf looking like an ornament of metal floating out of place in the heavens), one arm resting on one knee, the other resting lazily on the crook that leans against the boyish-faced, wide-hatted farmer's wool-clad shoulder, real shepherds did not spend the time in adoration of the heavens save when they were trying to go to sleep in the lush rural silence punctuated by sounds from the town below. No, they spent the time talking, laughing even for no reason save perhaps that one had been silent too long and could no longer contain the noise rattling around his voicebox, or because of drink.

"So many people down in the town tonight, more than any other night lately; is the census tonight then, or is there going to be more than this?" asked the youngest shepherd, a beardless boy with jutting slices of hair across his forehead uncovered by any hat, a breaking voice, and shepherd's crook, wearing fashionable town clothes nevertheless less comfortable than home-sheared shepherd's wool.

"You don't know?" his rival of sorts, one only slightly older and significantly drunker, laughed.

"Of course I don't know, I couldn't care less what the Romans are doing. We're hill folk."

"Says the boy in the Bethlehem clothes. What is that, a fashion from Rome itself?"

"These are from the best Jewish clothmerchants. Does it resemble a toga?"

"Actually, yes."

"You're drunk." Which he clearly was; whether it had any influence on his judgment of clothing was debateable. "Don't we have better things to talk about?"

"Yesh," slurred another drunk shepherd. "How 'bouts you has somethin' to drink?"

"Don't listen to him," advised the oldest, one of the few who wasn't drunk. He had a face coloured by caked dirt and something like a floppy, flat piece of cloth molding itself to the shape of his head and falling over his eyes as a hat, of sheep-leather washed through with the permanent smell of rain (a thing nevertheless rare where they were). "When you're drunk a wolf can sneak in and carry off a sheep and you won't notice."

"Who gives a fig abouts the sheeps?" the drunk one laughed, and started trying to pour some ale over his face and missing, though there was almost none in the cup anyway. A sheep bleated as if in anger, and the young one looked, but the sheep hadn't even been looking at them; he was looking up into the sky at something. Some others were bleating along with him; the moment one stopped another would start. Sound carried in a chain across the hills to the leaning fences.

"The sheep? What about the money?" suggested the old man. "I provide for most of the lot of you, and if I didn't I could be down there running a wool trade to rich men right now."

But now the youngest shepherd had drifted off, and was only paying attention to the sheep. The sheep were acting strangely that night. He had noticed that as he glanced casually at them in passing and it had held his eye. They had stopped grazing, not that they had been grazing much at all that night. They were transfixed in a way he had only ever seen when they were afraid; but they were clearly not afraid. The old man could have felt if they were afraid; and he was growing sure he could have as well. He followed their gaze; and saw the star.

He was quite calm, assuming it was just drink; until he realized he had not drunk anything. He realized with a shock of cold. The shepherds drank to keep warm, or huddled with the sheep when they were penned. Tonight the sheep grazed, so they drank. The boy didn't drink much. He was afraid of getting drunk; of what he would say or do, being at a very self-conscious age, and very self-conscious himself by nature. Nevertheless, drink was the natural assumption for something strange seen on a cold winter's night. Even after realizing it was either real or he was mad he couldn't quite make the calm wear off. He went over to another shepherd, while the old man was in the midst of a debate with his drunk peer.

"Hey," he pointed out, "do you see what the sheep are all looking at?"

The fourth shepherd looked up, intrigued. He kept staring up into it for a second. His smile disappeared and reappeared.

"I thought you weren't drinking tonight," he said, looking back down.

"I haven't been."

"What kind of bird is it that I'm really seeing, then?" He took another sip of ale. "An eagle or something? Must be pretty impressive. There's no doubt the sheep are noticing."

"Bird?" The boy frowned. How could the star be mistaken for a bird? Would a strange kind of bird be more remarkable than a strange kind of star, for the man's drunken mind to change it, or was it possible for drink to make something seem less remarkable? He would have known more had he a clear image of just how remarkable a sight his friend was seeing, but even then not enough to alleviate his confusion. He looked up intuitively back at the star.

There was, now, some kind of birdlike thing circling in the sky around it; glowing golden like the star itself. But it had a very bizarre shape; its body was longer than that of any bird he knew. It looked like some sort of a human with wings. It was growing larger as it circled like a hawk; descending slowly towards them. As it descended its circles grew tighter, as if it were narrowing in on something, and a strange feeling washed through the air; a sudden warmth existing on a different level from the mild mid-eastern winter chill.

As it descended, however, the anxiety he should have felt began to return. Was this a bad omen? Was it more than an omen? It was approaching, with no signs of stopping. It intended not only to be seen, but, it seemed, to land.

Joseph and Mary were led along the street down to a small building on a corner. The inn was not a very urban place; it was as far out from the city as this street would go, standing between fields and tight-pressed stone walls. A shabby but sturdy building, it was wooden, which was unusual in Bethlehem; a narrow, somewhat lopsided place with a sharp roof and a sign hanging off the door that bore its name: "The Ox and the Ass". Fitting its name, it was also a farm; it was on the edge once more of the less developed parts of Bethelhem. There were a few small livestock farms even within the city walls. It did not have much grazing space but it had a manger, shelter and all the basic needs of its few animals; there was also a small garden of fig trees. Such were the city farms; small, without the openness of the countryside but without the remoteness or danger as well. It had all it needed, and that was all that mattered. Down one of the streets there were a few other such inner-city farms and stables.

The star was ahead of them now; it had positioned itself where they were going to be. A small wood structure, from which the sounds of pacing, bleating livestock came was bathed in its light.

As soon as they got there the innkeeper turned to them. "I'm… I'm very sorry, but in your condition, I don't imagine you would be picky about where you would stay. Don't worry, it's good enough a place for one night…"

"No, no," replied Joseph, "we wouldn't refuse your hospitality, and your inn doesn't look half bad anyway." _Not anymore._

"I'm not talking… about the inn," he stumbled awkwardly. "_The Ox and the Ass _is full; it never had that much space to begin with."

"As long as it's shelter enough and a place to lie down," replied Mary. "But please lead us there as quickly as you can."

The man turned away and hid his sigh of relief; whether intending to or not one could not tell. He pointed them the way to the stable, and began to lead them there. He too was supporting Mary now as she walked.

_A stable, _thought Mary. _So in the end, men would not let us share their shelter, but animals will._

The feet of camels brushed the hardened, worn dust of the road; the dust of stone and buried soil and city grime and dung. They were uncomfortable on this ground; though it was like the sands of the desert. Neither one was purer; they both recycled themselves, but from different things. Under the scattered stars, three men still gazed at only one. Their banners hung limp and dormant in the windless streets of the city where the air too was walled in, or walled out. Attendants in white stepped as silent as the city where everyone now slept; save a few brawling drunkards in a corner here or there, who would stop to look with bruised eyes at the strange men intent on something they could not see. Sometimes they would run, with or without a shelter to run to; but they would never see the whole of the majestic caravan. The streets they trod were narrow, and they snaked through in single file, making a constellation on the streets.

Three wise men were lost in a city that defied their wisdom; their wisdom of the empty plains of the sky. They had until now ignored roads and followed directly the shadows of invisible astrological lines; but for all their skills as shamans, they could hardly walk through walls. It was difficult to pinpoint which streets led to the hidden spot where the star hovered. The star was clearly not over some recognizable landmark; not the census-taking booth or any wealthy man's mansion or the synagogue or the palatial homestead of the local Roman magistrate. But what was the likelihood of that anyway? The Great Spirit did not care for the ranks humans gave each other. Mathematically, such a convenient event would have been even more a miracle for them than whatever destiny was about to befall the kingdom of Judaea on Horus Eve. Far more likely any of the thousand houses or inns (though even they did not consider a manger).

Melchior tried to meditate on the destined location, but only found a straight line pillaged from his astrological memory. _How the wise can be foolish_. He could, though, see the place for a moment in his mind's eye. Somewhere beyond the narrow urban maze in the more open places within the walls; a tiny inn, a tinier stable for what could hardly be considered a farm. People there; a man, a woman, not in the inn but outside; the weight of destiny hung over them.

He turned to the small ball of spiritual energy floating over his shoulder, a golden lantern which had taken the aspect of a sort of caricatured dragon face with a flame-like mane and tail flickering out around and behind it. "Shishioryu," he whispered, "would you please do me a small favour, one you would not begrudge me? Fly above this accursed town and all its clay roofs and find a little wooden inn with a stable on which starlight shines." He smiled. "You will have my thanks, as I have thanked you for many things in my time."

The foxfire ghost smiled and nodded, transfiguring as it did with a rippling motion of space into a more recognizable translucent form that rushed upward with the graceful slithering dance of a wind or a river; over the rooftops and out of sight leaving a trail of mana fire flickering in and out of the night behind it. With a skilled shaman's ears one could hear it singing; or was that the air as it flew?

He halted his camel. The attendants behind him stopped and made hand signals to the rest of the procession. The camel of Balthazar behind him stopped, and the hand signals mirrored each other down the broken line of their caravan, even down to Gaspar who was out of sight on another road that turned into this one. They could hear faint snatches of ghost-motion or dragon-song, or perhaps imagined them. The other ghosts looked up into the air where Melchior's ghost had gone; as if wondering if they could go with him as well, though they did not know what he sought. Everyone looked at Melchior; at the white mane of the back of his head. He did not turn; they did not once see his eyes shining from wrinkled sockets or the golden star on his forehead.

But he spoke nevertheless. "I have a lead now. Let us not get ourselves any more lost until Shishioryu-san comes back, and can show us the way." He spoke softly; the attendants carried the message down the line. When it reached Balthazar he replied in a more audible voice:

"Then, we must ride fast after. We should not want to miss midnight."

The shepherds trembled in fear.

They were huddled together, though they needed no extra warmth for the terrible warmth and light assailing them from the thing that had suddenly appeared. None of them took defensive positions. Some were bowing their heads, as much to avert their eyes from a sight they could not, and felt they should not, comprehend as to show respect to the fearful visitor that had arrived. Their shadows stretched out long and sharp as black swords against the suddenly floodlit grass of the hill, curving over the hilltops, bending over backwards away from the apparition. Only the boy who had watched it descend as a miraculous bird-shape from a miraculous star dared look at it, like a boy looking on a strange insect up close, amazed at what he had discovered. The sheep gazed – they were almost forming a circle about the hills now, like a synagogue congregation – but were unafraid.

**"Fear not," **it said, but no-one there had been to synagogue often enough to know that was the preferred opening message of an angel.

The light of the many and one stars seemed unable to decide whether to reflect off the being's metallic surface or shine straight through it heedless of its presence; so on the angular surfaces of the golden hulk the shepherds saw at once themselves and that which was beyond them. Lights danced and flickered around it; it was the centre of its own Milky Way. They were struck by the aura it exuded of alienness and power; it had an angular, metallic body that they were unable to recognize as being the technology of the future, with a harsh, simple cross carved deep into the spirit-ore where its face should have been, staring at them coldly. Vast wings spread out behind it with long fingers of metal flexing where feathers should have been; they did not move but still the being floated, standing lightly on the air bobbing up and down with passing winds, armored feet pointed downwards as if it was hanging there from a rope. No-one thought it would harm them; but looking at it no-one could think of such mundane worries at all. It did not seem evil, but it was far more frightening than evil could ever be.

"How can we not fear?" half-whispered the oldest shepherd to the stirring, waking air.

**"If ye were sinners, then ye wouldst have no fear of me; for they are those who have no fear of my master." ** The voice that came from it was huge and unnaturally simple; without tone or expression. Each vowel, each consonant, was identical; perfect sounds stuck together in sequence into words as cold as the night and as sharp and angular as its edges.

"Then you are… an angel?" the youngest shepherd interpreted quickly.

**"Yes," **it said. **"I am the angel Gabriel."**

They waited for the angel to tell them why it had appeared before them; they expected it would hastily explain itself for showing itself to mere shepherds like a child trying to stay out of trouble – but no explanation came. Each second without one stung them with its uncertainty.

**"I have come to bring glad tidings," **was all that the angel said.

And by now so tense they were, so frightened for their view of the world as a vast thing existing apart from them, that before any could ask what glad tidings there were, the first question instead that it heard was: "But why would you tell them to us?"

**"I am surprised at you," **the angel Gabriel replied. **"I would have expected shepherds such as you would have been more humble, but you don't seem to realize that **_**this is not at all about you."**_

Mary lay gasping in pain on the hay in the shadow of the ox and the ass, lit by the starlight that seemed to stream over the roof and well into the chamber, and by the distant lights of Bethlehem streets and the other stars, the vague background light of night-time in which its rare shadows were cast. The cracks in the roof, narrow splinter-line fissures in the wood or all-out breaks from age widening with rain-rot under which the dirt floor was always darker, were slivers of sheer shifting yellow and blue light; it was an eerie effect, an effect of destiny closing in and pressing at the door. So Mary always looked away from the ceiling; out past the posts into the emptying night air and the silent fields of ragged grass and rocky sand; or up into the sympathetic faces of Joseph, or the animals. Joseph only looked at her, fear for her and unconscious fear from without mingling and becoming one unnameable constant, before which rational thought disappeared and the mind entered a state of dreamlike contemplation.

The animals were curious at the arrival of the new humans. They did not recognize them, but they rarely bothered to differentiate humans; they had never had the need, or seen enough others to be even able to recognize the differences in human appearance in the same way as they could recognize the differences between donkeys or bulls or chickens or identify each individual mourning-dove resting in the rafters. (These doves had gathered in the rafters in great numbers tonight, drawn to the alien sensation of bathing in the light of a foreign star filling the sky. They were transfixed by the radiant streaks between the stable-planks and cooed unusual harmonies to them; "_ra- hu, ra- hu._") The main difference, in fact, that they noticed about these humans was not physical or in terms of personality or actions; it was a sense of connectedness to the events around them, a sense of importance that was at times literally dizzying to their finely attuned instincts (even though those instincts had started to blur in their focus from generations of domesticity).

It was approaching midnight; the baby had not come as quickly as expected; only the pain had. It was as if the universe was trying to keep on schedule.

It was.

And the deadline was almost there.

In the sky the angels tested their voices and the great astrological clock's hand turned lethargically to the magic hour.


	4. NOWELL 2 Nativity Scene

5

Mary cried out, and Joseph's heart ached terribly to see her in such pain; yet at the same time anticipation filled him; this cry was louder than the others, almost shaking the tips of the hay, the ox and the ass were leaning closer to see what would happen, their ears vibrating between pricked and flattened because of the noise. _It'll soon be over; _but each repetition of this thought was painful, because it brought a new worry into his thoughts; _How soon? What is soon?_ Minutes passed in that animal shed that seemed days, days without the reprieve of night, lit constantly by the sunlight of that star. Harsh winds blew wildly without; but here, only sounds moved the warm, musky air; Mary crying and the cattle lowing comfortingly.

Joseph thought he could hear the baby itself crying from within echoed in her cries. He was unaware that he too was sobbing silently. The tears of pain, sadness and joy on every face glowed in the mystic starlight, but no one but the animals could see for their eyes were closed.

Some of the doves had turned away from the star and now cooed soft lullabies to Mary and the baby inside of her, the baby that was on the verge of being born. Though ten times softer than Mary's cries or the wind outside, which was blowing up into a gale, darting even into the barn and grabbing man and beast with fingers of cold, rising in intensity with the starlight as if fighting it, the song of the doves was not drowned out; their melodies drifted on another plane of sound, atop the rest. The ox began lowing in harmony; and the half-imagined cries of the child, it seemed, provided a third part.

Outside frost, something almost unheard of in a place such as Bethlehem, was rolling over the grass in a tide, and reflecting the vibrating light from the sky in a sea of its own tiny stars.

The night absorbed Mary's cries and gave nothing back, except the starlight, which grew and grew, until it became almost unbearable to look up at the roof over their heads. Out in the streets, none bore witness, save those drifting in and out of unconsciousness on street corners freezing and broken like bottles, and those in a caravan that seemed to float above the street too warm with dung and mule-tracks and the Earth's heartbeat for the frost to settle upon; save the foolish, and the wise.

But in the hills, there were those who bore witness.

Before their eyes a column of starlight undulated; it had focused into a strange cone, like a spotlight had they ever seen or heard of one, casting a magic circle in sharp lines around Bethlehem like a vast reflection of the star; and as the star twinkled the ring expanded and contracted, sometimes to so narrow a beam that it seemed to focus about a single building, somewhere in a tiny field, that they could not make out.

"What does this star represent?" asked the old shepherd, though none of them had been thinking of the star. The man was very perceptive, though his senses had been long dulled by age.

**"Rahu," **the angel replied enigmatically.

Somehow none of them were confused by the word; though no-one had a miraculous revelation, nor could anyone consciously put a finger on what it meant.

**"It signifies that a saviour is now born; and that soon, the contest to determine the saviour is about to begin."**

They all nodded, with the childlike silence of the sheep.

**"It signifies that in a manger here in Bethlehem, as enacted yearly in the stars, a miraculous event has occurred; the birth of a king."**

One of the drunker ones broke the silence. "A king? In a manger? That's perposteroush!"

The angel's emotionless eyes did not move, denying him the dignity of an angry stare, but the voice was directed at – was heard by – he alone. **"I hope that you should bring much of your plenty to the one who is born in this manger, proud fool – or heaven will not be pleased."**

***************

Joseph and Mary lost track of time, but the world did not.

The world was a clock; a countdown to the perfect moment.

It was a clock that was stopped, as the star had stopped moving in the sky. To a skilled astronomer it would be visible that even the sky itself had stopped moving; it had rushed to align itself for the right time, but now there was no more need; so everything waited, even the baby in Mary's womb, for midnight – for the shepherds and the wise men to arrive, or at least to set out on their way; for all the ignorant to close their doors and windows tight against the cold, where they could not interfere. The frost that crept over the ground had frozen the heavens.

Up in the firmament Sirius hovered just barely in alignment with Virgo. But Sirius and Virgo were hidden behind a closer, brighter aster, a nighttime sun.

Rahu.

***************

**"I come to bring to you good these good tidings."**

"Why?"

**"Because you can hear them. Few can. The few who have the ability to see spirits such as I, and to hear our song. You must come to bear witness."**

"Why must we come?"

Again something like anger – as much as a machine can be angry – entered its voice. **"Because you can. It is a privilege. Should you not see this moment, you will regret it for the rest of your lives. By regret, hell is born in a soul; eternal salvation is escaped. The Great Spirit has given you the right to see and hear us so that you can come and worship the child, and spread the tidings of peace on Earth, goodwill to men. Behold – I will show you one more thing."**

The shepherds watched closely; some began to be afraid again. What would this be now? The angel sensed their fear. **"Fear not." **The suddenness of the sound startled them, and did nothing to assuage their fear. Several drank another swig or two; the old one slapped their hands, knocking away one loose-gripped drunkard's bowl. He gave a look that read clearly: _Don't disrespect this message of God._

**"Look into the light of the star – the light of holy Rahu – and listen."**

They peered closely into the light, closer and closer, as if their eyes were flying towards it; perhaps that was an effect of their drink, a sense of being out of their bodies as they zoomed cinematically in on the column, and perceived every stream of light in scientific detail – and there were no streams of light they could discern, but shapes, strange shapes, shifting and moving so fast they could barely make them out. Perhaps they had gone too close, were only seeing minute details – so they zoomed out again, conscious of the subtleties of light, which were no longer subtleties but sharp outlines, sharp as carefully forged steel edges, and starkly angled. Angled like the being who had been before them, before they had stared through him into the light.

The starlight was angels.

A slowly circling choir. And in understanding its choral nature by some intuition, and remembering the angel's admonition not only to look but to listen, their ears too left their bodies, became the ears of the air. And there was singing. The voices of the beings when they had spoken had been mechanical – unless it was only the one – and they looked cold and metallic, but they were singing with more melody and passion than the birds combined with the sweetest voices of men, as if they had saved all their tone and emotion for this stellar performance, locked it up and let it loose.

**"Peace on Earth," **was all they sang, in a tongue the shepherds knew not and yet knew. **"Peace on Earth, good will to men."**

As they beheld the circling of the song, the circling of the angels, the song of the angels, the light of the star, the youngest shepherd stood up. The angel did not move; its eyes did not follow him. The youngest shepherd tried to look back to the others but could not turn his head away from the magical choir. He paused, then took a step forward, towards it. He paused again, as if to look back, or as if to say, _sorry, I can't look back now._

Another rose. In succession, the shepherds began to rise.

On their way away from the fields, they picked up a couple of lambs sleeping. If the Messiah was at hand, it would be best to bring gifts. Their sheep were all they had, for all they had came from their sheep. The angel didn't move. But as they descended the hillside, it didn't stay either. At some point, when it knew without looking that they were on their way, it disappeared. So strange, so shifting and multiple was the fractal choir, defying number, that the hypnotized agriculturists were unable to tell that another angel had joined it in its song; **"Peace on Earth, good will to men. Hallelujah; Nowell, Nowell."**

***************

What is Nowell?

Nowell is not what the angel said. What the angel said is lost. 'Nowell' is the only word left that conjures the same antiquity and mystery, and has the same meaning; 'Nowell' being an ancient word for good news. 'Nowell' was in some ancient tongue of Europe, where the Shaman King Jesus Christ's following was to spread in the latter days of his unseeing reign over the sunken island of Mu; the language has been forgotten, the word has remained. The angel said 'Nowell' in the oldest tongue in the world, the wise language of the Patch tribe. The shepherds and the wise men knew not the tongue but they knew the word. 'Good news.' 'Nowell.'

The only humans with any sixth sense who could not hear the good news of the angel's song were Joseph and Mary. They could not hear the good news, as they were that of which it spoke. Mary's sacrifice was to suffer as the compassionate rejoiced for her suffering; as her child's was to be as well. But such is the way of good news. Still, it was hard not to feel something unusual in the light of that filtered now through cracks too small to see so the manger roof itself glowed. To Joseph, that only worsened his condition, as he understood he was missing something by seeing it firsthand.

But an entirely human, greater joy was approaching, inevitably where their hearts and the world met; an emotional time bomb.

At that point time was beginning to realize it was running out of itself. The wise men realized they could not hope to see the moment of the birth; and that though it was the world's sacred moment, it was one family's as well, and that they had no right to see it, for all their wisdom.

***************

Minutes, then seconds, then nanoseconds, then midnight.

It was midnight.

The shepherds were at the gates. The wise men paused suddenly in the midst of the street. Caravan attendants sat down and gazed at the frost-glazed winter sky. The three onmyouji themselves closed their eyes and meditated. Void flooded their minds. Then starlight.

The angels paused.

Then every angel whispered, Nowell.

***************

Then Mary screamed with freedom. The moment that had been held in was let out; the ice of time thawed and burst like a river.

The star brightened to the point that inside the manger it was almost impossible to see. When the light receded, there was something crawling now free in the hay; seeming to pulse with starlight, slowly dying down.

Joseph gasped, and sighed in relief. The cattle lowed, joyful this time. The tears did not cease to fall from Mary's eyes.

She picked up the newly created life and held it up. There, tiny, pink, and naked, but strangely silent.

"I name you Jesus," she said, as the starlight folded back inside him, concealed except for his eyes and the music of his silence, innocent but wise, young but ancient beyond reckoning.

And now everyone could hear the song from without, closing in on them like a mother's arms.

***************

The guards were nearly asleep when the shepherds came to the gates of Bethlehem. They almost slipped past, not with deliberate sneakiness, but just out of convenience. But one guard near the door finally noticed them. He could recognize that they were mere shepherds; they didn't need to be interrogated; he had seen them come into town to buy things at the market occasionally before. He spoke calmly just as they were going past him: "It's a bit late to be going to Bethlehem now, if it's for the census. You up drinking and forget or what?" He was too sleepy to ask what the sheep were for; he barely noticed the lamb in one shepherd's arms. "All the inns are going to be closed, and overcrowded if not. You might as well turn back."

"We're not here for that. We've never cared about the Romans' censuses before. We were born in the hills, and the Romans won't bother to come there."

"Then what are you here for?" He was remembering another unusual incident; three men who were definitely not natives of Bethlehem entering the town, with an entire caravan, wearing rich and exotic clothes.

"There is a miracle of God about to occur. It might have occurred already."

"What? What are you talking about? Are you drunk?"

The oldest shepherd drew close to him. "We shepherds do more than just drink. Even on cold nights like this."

"Sorry, didn't mean to offend you or anything… but what the heck're you talking about, a miracle of God?"

"Have you seen the star in the sky?"

"What? What star? Oh, go on, I have no time for shepherds who think they're astrologers. Have fun seeing the miracle!"

"You'll open the gates for us, then?"

"Gates are supposed to be closed, this hour of night. Ungodly hour for a godly miracle. Look, I'll let you guys in cuz I know you and you're harmless drunk or sober or ranting about miracles. But don't tell anybody I did. The boss especially doesn't want any disorder by night on a night like tonight, with so many people in town. He would kill me – maybe even literally."

"Thank you very much," said the old one who led them. The lamb bleated in his arms. The guard looked at him strangely. "Why the devil are you carrying a lamb?"

"To deliver." The gates were creaking open. "It's a real pity you won't see the miracle."

The gates swung open, a portal into the corridors of city night. The shepherds stepped in. Silently, the last waking guard followed, making sure to close the grand wooden doors behind him.

***************

The wise men stood at the gate for three minutes before Mary and Joseph noticed them.

They did not hear any approaching footsteps because of the song. The song was soft but seemed to block out everything else; it entered their ears and swished about inside their heads, singing from within not without. The child rocked back and forth to its subtle rhythm. He was the only one moving.

Mary was puzzling the words together out of the humming of mystic harmonies. She did not recognize the language; the ancient Patch tongue. She recognized the words, ten minutes after midnight, three minutes after the arrival of the wise men, ten minutes after she had begun trying to decipher them. "Peace on Earth," she mouthed along with the melody. "Peace on Earth, good will to men."

"Why are they singing?" she asked as it echoed about the precarious walls and minute wooden rafters. "Why are they singing peace on Earth, good will to men?"

Melchior snuck up behind her and whispered, "I can tell you."

The attention of the entire shed was drawn to the open space where there should have been a door. There in the humble farm-field a vast procession had halted. All except the old man behind her were either staring into the manger or up at the sky. It was a rich caravan of veiled attendants in white, drowsy camels and flapping silken tents; with strange red banners on which were embroidered the emblem of a five-pointed star. The innkeeper/farmer had come out to gawp shamelessly at the foreigners. He could tell why they had come to his front lawn and was proud to have let the strangers, Mary and Joseph, stay.

Three men seemed to be the leaders. One was the old man; the others were a young man in saffron robes and a serious-faced adult in dignified white with a tall black hat. Then, before their eyes, these three pulled from sacks that they carried or had stored in the caravans gold, frankincense and myrrh.

"What are those?" Joseph asked.

"Gifts," explained Balthazar, "for the holy child."

***************

In a palace in a large city of Judaea, a hawk appeared out of nowhere on the battlements and startled some of the guards. There had been nothing in the sky; the guards had turned away for a second, and then when they turned back, it was perched there, head jutting forward, staring them down. There were other signs indicating its supernatural nature. It was bigger than most hawks. It was a smoldering coal red all over its body, and seemed to glow with an eldritch light. Hints of the stars behind it showed through its feathers. It was carrying a message around its neck. It had come partly unrolled, and they could see it was written in a runic script they did not comprehend.

"Quick," a more experienced guard told his younger apprentice, "fetch the astrologer!" The younger one was glad to, to escape the presence of what was clearly no less than a ghost.

The ruler to whom the palace belonged was with the astrologer when the guard found him, in a tower studying the stars. Or, studying a star. The astrologer grew increasingly troubled, and as he grew troubled the king grew enraged.

"What is it? Why are you hiding the fate of my kingdom from me?! Traitor!"

"I really don't know, something like this has never been seen before in history…"

"I don't even see anything, you liar!"

The boy's heart sank. He had just run into something more frightening than a ghost; his master in a bad mood. He stuttered as he spoke, and had to repeat himself three times before he was noticed. "M-m-master astrologer, n-not to d-disturb you, b-b-but there's a g-ghost on the ramparts."

The astrologer turned. "A ghost? What kind of ghost?"

"A-a hawk, m-master. A-a red hawk – it c-c-carries a letter."

The astrologer's worried face was split by the broadest and most wrinkled smile of relief he had ever seen. Even the king seemed to become a little less agitated.

"Do you think it means you'll be able to tell me something?" the monarch demanded.

"Yes. Come, Herod." He swept past the guard on his way out. The king rose to his full height and stumbled right up to the guard until it seemed they would collide, then went past him after fixing him with a terrifying stare. The guard could still hear the astrologer's mutterings echoing through the hall. "Let us see what news my colleague has sent us."


End file.
